she alerts herself of the spaces
between the ignored and the flowers sitting
on her bedside, unwelcomed.
the skin of her fingers begin to peel but
nothing compares to the flashing nightmares and
when they are over, every morning the nurse sits with her and tells her
about her children, and how they come to visit her but
she is always asleep.
i've always had wrong timing, she remarks to herself.
it has been three days since the accident and three
days since she saw her kids and three days since
she will never see her husband again
it was an accident, probing voices of kind people tell
her but she never listens.
the curtains swirl listlessly and she hears fragments:
nerve damage, seizures, speech impediments, brain truama
the doctor smiles at her but only refers to her as car accident
patient, it is the nurses that explain
that she will never be like before
'it is good you're kids are all grown up, mam otherwise you may
have never been able to support them'
she closes her mind to them and think of the tulips
next to her. she thinks of sylvia, the woman who never got
to be the age that she was, there is something unnatural
about that, sadness leaks into her through an invisible drip.
she finds herself clawing
at the blackness. the lady who smiles the morphine into her
insists she will be fine and to go to sleep
but no, she tells herself, i must be awake when the kids come
i find myself doing that again, converting stories into poems. and yes, like always, the sylvia plath connection slips between my words.